Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2

by Don Bassingthwaite

  “That’s what keeps gnomes alive.” Midian stopped beside the guards who stood outside Geth’s door. “Your chamber. I’ll see you at the arena?” His face brightened considerably. “Keraal has developed a popular following. He defeated three Kech Shaarat bladedancers yesterday. There’s a rumor that he’s ighting four Marguul berserkers today.”

  “I’ll be there.” Geth stepped up to his door—the guards put fists to chests in a salute—then glanced back at Midian for a moment as the gnome bounced away down the corridor. Maybe it wasn’t so difficult to see him orchestrating Haruuc’s death. He wondered how long they’d be able to keep Chetiin’s survival a secret.

  Geth pushed open his door, stepped into his chamber, and closed the door behind him, then looked around the room. Hang something out of your window if you need to talk to me, Chetiin had said. Geth’s eye landed on a bright green blanket across his bed. Dragging it off, he took it over to the open window and wedged one end firmly around the hinge of a shutter. The other he tossed out of the window. The wind caught it and blew it out like a woolen banner.

  It was all he could do for now. Hopefully Chetiin would see the signal and come to him. Geth turned away to prepare for his appearance at the games—and stopped as he caught sight of himself in a mirror that hung on his wall.

  One cheek was streaked with black. The whole time he’d been talking to Midian he’d had soot on his face. He cursed and looked more closely. The patch of soot was small and narrow, left behind by the careless touch of a inger maybe. Geth turned his face back and forth, then tilted his head back, trying to guess how much a short person like Midian could really have seen. The soot was close to the thick hair of the sideburns that traced his jaw and easy to mistake for a shadow. Maybe the gnome hadn’t even noticed it. And what if he had? It was only a smear of soot. It could have come from anywhere.

  You’re worrying over nothing, Geth told himself. He drew a deep breath, blew it out again, and scrubbed the soot away with the heel of his palm.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  22 Sypheros

  Twilight came, and with it an end to the flow of supplicants to the grove around the ancient well. Pradoor had chosen to remain beneath the twisted branches for the day, letting the faithful come to her rather than wandering the streets to meet them. Normally Makka would have chafed at a day forced to sit and do nothing, but he found the time slipping past like a fast stream. Like the unseen water that rushed in the depths of the well.

  The dark presence that lingered in the grove didn’t vanish with daylight, but seemed to grow stronger the longer Makka sat above the rock-rimmed hole.

  When the last of the faithful had left the grove and the setting sun outlined the wizened branches with red light, Pradoor let out her breath in a long hiss of triumph. “Rhukaan Draal is the axle and I am the pin. The order of the world will be set right. The old ways will be given their proper place once more.” She turned to face Makka. “You have been silent.”

  “I have been thinking,” he said.

  “Have you?” Pradoor asked. Her thin lips twitched.

  The old goblin’s speech the night before had lit a fire in Makka’s belly. He dropped to his knees in front of her. “The Six call. Show me how I may serve them.”

  “You already serve.”

  “Show me how to serve them better. Show me how to serve as you serve.”

  Pradoor smiled, showing her teeth. “The Six marked you as theirs before they guided me to you, Makka. You cannot serve as I serve—I am given souls, you are given steel. But I can show you how to serve in your own way.” She pointed. “Turn.”

  Makka shifted around and found himself staring into the ancient well among the jumbled rocks. “What do I do?”

  “Look,” Pradoor said. She reached up and pushed his head forward. “Look and learn to see. The age turns, and you have your own part to play in the order of the world.”

  Makka leaned out over the hole and peered down into the echoing darkness. At first it seemed there was nothing to see, but then shapes moved, and the sound of rushing water became the thunder of blood in his veins. Makka’s eyes widened and he saw.

  He saw Ashi of Deneith dying on her own sword.

  He saw the shifter, Geth, crushed and in agony.

  He saw Dagii of Mur Talaan impaled on an elf spear.

  He saw Ekhaas of Kech Volaar with her throat torn out.

  He saw the White Stone tribe wasting away from a plague that afflicted their camp and no other, but that pursued them no matter where they fled.

  He saw every person he had ever sworn vengeance against brought low. He saw every person who had wronged him in even the slightest way met with a swift and terrible justice.

  He saw himself, filled with anger and power and strength, mercy wiped away by rage, bringing divine wrath down upon the world.

  “Who do you serve?” asked Pradoor’s voice.

  “I serve the Six,” Makka said.

  “How do you serve?”

  “With steel.” More. Understanding rose up inside him. “With steel and faith, and a will to bring the old ways back to the dar!”

  “Who is your patron?”

  He knew the answer. It throbbed with the beating of his heart and raced through him with all of life’s ecstasy. He saw it before his eyes. The calm that had guided him through the day vanished in a wave of frenzy. He drew the knife that had been an offering to the Six from his belt and pushed the tip against his chest, carving what he saw into his flesh. “The Fury,” he roared. “I belong to the Fury and her power belongs to me!”

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  23 Sypheros

  Geth.”

  The call intruded on Geth’s sleeping mind, and it seemed to him that he had been hearing it for quite some time. It came again. “Geth.”

  He curled more tightly under his blankets.

  “Geth!” The speaker, his voice strained and thick, sounded irritated. Something flicked Geth’s nose.

  Awareness, if not alertness, burst over him like a war wizard’s spell over a battlefield. He moved by instinct. A figure stood close to him and he punched at it in the same movement that brought him out of bed. The figure simply tumbled away, landing in a crouch on the sill of the open window. Geth dropped into a defensive stance, hands and arms raised, shocked mind calculating how he could reach Wrath before his attacker came at him again—

  Recognition intruded on the rush of battle. The figure on the window sill was Chetiin. The goblin watched him with careful intensity in his black eyes. The sky behind him was gray with dawn. Geth shook his head and lowered his hands. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “That’s why I tried to wake you from a distance first,” said Chetiin. He reached down to the back of a chair below the window and tossed Geth’s pants to him. “Cover yourself.”

  Geth struggled into the pants, swaying as the dizziness of sudden waking crashed down on him. “I thought you might have come sooner.”

  “Sneaking into Khaar Mbar’ost isn’t easy.” The shaarat’khesh elder looked at him. “You summoned me. You need to talk?”

  Over the afternoon and evening of the day before, Geth had worked out what he would say to Chetiin. How he would describe the misgivings and shameful suspicions he’d had as smoothly as Ekhaas might have. Sleep, however, had stolen the words from him. “I …” he bumbled, then clenched his teeth and said simply, “I doubted you. I’m sorry. I’ve seen the ledge—”

  Chetiin shook his head. “Don’t speak of it,” he said. “Just tell me that wasn’t the only reason I climbed up here.”

  “You climbed?” Geth went over to the window and peered past him. His window was easily seven or eight floors up. Khaar Mbar’ost was far shorter than even a minor tower in the city of Sharn, but it was still tall enough. There was nothing under his window except a drop to the stones of the plaza around the fortress. He looked at Chetiin with new respect.

  The goblin just shrugged casually. “It was
the easiest way to reach you. Now talk. Is it something about the war?”

  “Have you learned anything more about who attacked you?”

  “No.” Chetiin’s ears twitched. “And that troubles me. If no one has stepped forward to claim the assassination by now, they may never come forward. They may not be able to. Whoever hired them may have betrayed them.”

  “Midian.”

  “If he could betray Haruuc, he could betray a hired assassin.”

  “We are talking about someone who tried to kill you, Chetiin.”

  “Who breaks muut with one member of the Silent Clans breaks muut with all of us, Geth.” The muscles of his jaw tightened. “And if the true assassin is dead, I can’t clear my name. I convinced you, but I doubt I could convince others. Volaar kapaa’taat kesha do haan—the word of traitors is written on air.”

  “We could vouch for you,” Geth said.

  Chetiin shook his head. “And reveal the secret of the rod? I don’t think so. My honor may become a sacriice.”

  It was as good an opening as he was going to get. Geth took a breath and pushed out the idea that had prompted him to hang the blanket from his window. “If you’re not having any luck tracking down the assassin, maybe there’s something else you can do,” he said. “I’d like you to go to war with Dagii and Ekhaas.”

  He didn’t think he’d ever seen Chetiin look surprised. The expression survived only moments on the goblin’s wrinkled face, though, then it was gone. “Why?” he asked.

  “I want to be certain they make it back. I don’t think I’ll be able to deal with the Rod of Kings on my own.”

  Chetiin looked past him. Geth turned and followed his gaze to the small chest that rested on—or rather was bolted to the top of—a heavy table. The chest was bound in iron and had three magewrought locks, the keys to which hung around Geth’s neck. There were other defenses, too, invisible to his eyes, but Ekhaas assured him they were there. In truth, though, Geth didn’t see the chest as protecting the rod from others so much as protecting others from the rod.

  “You’ve done well so far,” said Chetiin.

  “And the switch with the false rod should be easy,” Geth continued for him. “No, it’s after that I’m worried about. I won’t be Haruuc’s shava any more. I want Ekhaas and Dagii—and you—here to help me and Ashi.” He echoed what Ashi had said. “Our group is being broken up. We need to stay together.”

  Chetiin looked at him for a long moment. “Ekhaas and Dagii are capable. They can take care of themselves,” he said. “If I go, only you and Ashi will be here. I don’t think Midian can be trusted.”

  “Neither do I. He still doesn’t know we’ve figured him out, but if we have to deal with him after the false rod is in the hands of the new lhesh, he may guess. That’s why I need you to make sure Dagii and Ekhaas make it back. War isn’t predictable. I want someone watching over them.”

  Chetiin’s ears twitched. “You trust me.”

  “I do now.”

  Chetiin actually smiled. “That pleases me. I’ll go.” His smile jerked a little higher on one side. “It isn’t often that one of the shaarat’khesh is asked to protect lives rather than take them.”

  “I’m not used to sending other people out to fight in my place,” said Geth with a grunt. “I’m surprised Wrath hasn’t pushed me to go myself.”

  “Fighting isn’t always the hero’s part,” Chetiin said. He twisted around and swung his legs out the window, then nodded toward the glowing horizon. “The last day of Haruuc’s games. The beginning of the end. Good luck, Geth.”

  “Rat and Tiger dance for you, Chetiin.” Geth leaned out and watched the goblin start his climb down the wall of Khaar Mbar’ost like some big shadowy spider.

  The end began as Haruuc’s funeral had begun—with a procession.

  At first there was little to see from where Ekhaas sat in the stands of the arena, but she could hear the waves of cheering that accompanied the progress of the procession through Rhukaan Draal. It was like listening to the approach of a violent storm. The excited murmur of those lucky enough to have found a place in the arena itself—and there wasn’t a spare place to be had, even among the sections reserved for dignitaries—was wind in storm-tossed trees. The blurred susurrus grew louder and louder until the storm was upon them. One pair of the arena’s great gates opened and lightning might have struck. The roar of the crowd was thunder.

  Where Haruuc’s corpse had led the funeral procession, Geth led the way onto the blood-damp sand of the arena floor. Somehow, Ekhaas thought, the shifter managed to look even more grim than the dead lhesh had. Ashi, sitting at her side, took her hand and squeezed it. The very human gesture was embarrassing, but Ekhaas didn’t pull away. It felt good to share her anxiety.

  The four claimants to Haruuc’s throne followed Geth, smiling like victorious soldiers and waving to their supporters. Among the deafening echoes that illed the arena, it was impossible to tell who received the loudest cheers. Iizan looked just as conident as Tariic, and Garaad looked just as conident as Aguus. All four were dressed in splendid armor that flashed in the sunlight. All four walked as if they strode the polished stones of a throne room rather than an arena that had seen five days of combat and bloodshed. Not that any of them had any choice now, even if they doubted their true chances. To abandon their claim would be a stain on their honor.

  The warlords and clan chiefs of Darguun came last. They entered as a group, more solemn than the contending heirs, though not so grim as Geth, and took their places for the final ritual of Haruuc’s mourning.

  Geth moved to stand against one wall of the arena, the rival claimants against the others. The warlords—Dagii among them, the three tribex horns mounted to shoulders of the ancestral armor of Mur Talaan rising over his head—spread themselves out on either side, leaving a broad pathway between them.

  Drums took up a deep rolling heartbeat that sounded even above the noise of the crowd. Slowly, sound in the arena died away until only the drums remained. Then they, too, fell silent and Razu stepped onto the raised platform that had recently been occupied by the announcer of the games. Her staff rapped the platform three times.

  On the other side of Ekhaas from Ashi, Senen leaned close. “Did you know that Razu moved the date of the coronation by two days on the advice of your friend Midian Mit Davandi?”

  “I didn’t,” Ekhaas lied.

  “Tariic isn’t happy.”

  “I don’t imagine he is.”

  Razu spoke, her voice ringing. “By tradition, when a warlord of the Ghaal’dar Clans dies without declaring an heir, any senior warrior of his clan who believes he can hold the position may seek it. Rivals must pass the judgment of the other senior warriors and meet the approval of the members of the clan. If they cannot, they are not strong enough, and only the strong may take a place as warlord.” The beat of a single drum began again, a counterpoint to the old hobgoblin’s words. “Lhesh Haruuc Shaarat’kor died without declaring an heir. We look to tradition to guide us!”

  She thrust out her staff. “Iizan of Ghaal Sehn. Aguus of Traakuum. Garaad of Vaniish Kai. Tariic of Rhukaan Taash. You believe you have the strength to take the throne of Darguun as lhesh. With the warlords of Darguun to judge you and before the people of Darguun”—her staff swung around to encompass the crowd in the arena—“step forward and claim it!”

  The sound of all the unseen drums surged together into a powerful, throbbing beat that Ekhaas felt in her belly. The crowd remained very nearly silent, however. Ekhaas could see the four claimants studying Geth and each other.

  Iizan moved, taking a slow step forward. His eyes swung around the assembled warlords.

  One … two … three of them met his gaze. The rest looked down or up or simply away, anywhere but into his face. Among the stands, there were only scattered shouts. Iizan trembled and took another, tentative step, still searching the faces of the warlords for support, but even those who had met his gaze before looked away. The shouts from the s
tands gave way to mocking hoots. Iizan stopped where he stood, his face pale, his ears sagging.

  Garaad, Tariic, and Aguus didn’t wait to take turns. As Iizan stood in shame, they stepped out almost at the same time. The noise in the stands exploded and once again it was impossible to tell who had the greatest support from the people. It was simpler, though, to tell who had support among the warlords. Aguus and Garaad advanced across the sand step by step, finding and then losing the gazes of the lords of Darguun. Garaad made it several paces beyond Iizan before the last of his supporters looked away. Aguus stopped a short way beyond that.

  Tariic’s stride was casual, almost arrogant. He didn’t pause to search for support, he paused to accept it. As Garaad and then Aguus stopped, it became abundantly clear whom the people of Darguun—or at least those of Rhukaan Draal—favored as well. One loud voice broke free to rise above the others. “Tariic and victory over the Valenar!”

  Tariic lifted his head and pointed out into the crowd in the general direction of the shout. The noise in the arena seemed to double. Tariic strode across the sand, stopped in front of Geth, bowed his head, then stepped to the shifter’s side and raised his hand.

  Warlords and people alike roared their approval of the next lhesh of Darguun.

  He’s done it, thought Ekhaas. Ashi squeezed her hand. Ekhaas squeezed back.

  Razu didn’t appear again to make any kind of formal announcement of Tariic’s succession to the throne. There really wasn’t any need. Aguus, Garaad, and Iizan came forward and knelt before him in acknowledgement of his triumph—a true pledge of allegiance would come after his coronation. The rhythm of the drums shifted into something almost festive, and the warlords, Tariic, and Geth retreated from the arena to the cheers of the crowd. A few moments later, Tariic and Geth appeared together at the rail of the warlords’ box. Tariic waved once more to the crowd, allowed them to cheer a little longer, then nodded to the announcer, who had reclaimed his platform. The drums fell silent, and so did much of the crowd. The event, aside from the selection of the lhesh, that had driven their anticipation through much of the day had arrived.